


Caregiver

by mansikka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Caring Dean, Fluff, Hurt Castiel, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean Winchester?”</p><p>An unrecognisable woman's voice has Dean suspicious, and he chooses not to answer. But when she announces she has Cas with her, and that more than that, Cas is sick, Dean's protective instincts kick in. Join Dean as he discovers new things about his best friend; specifically, angel moulting, and how to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caregiver

“Dean Winchester?”

An unrecognizable feminine voice asks suspiciously over the phone, and Dean chooses not to answer. He hears a sigh that is unimpressed, and impatient.

“Dean Winchester. Or whoever's heavy breathing over the end of this phone. You got a friend whose name rhymes with ' _ass_ ' by any chance? 'Cause if you have, I'd sure appreciate it if you come and take him off of my hands. Like, right _now_.”

“Cas?” Dean's voice fills with alarm.

“Ah, there you are,” and whoever the woman is, she sounds furious, like Dean's being deliberately difficult. “Thank _God_. So. Get here. _Now_ , please.”

“Where's _here_? And what's happened?” Dean's already pacing back towards the car though, and planning what he's going to tell Sam, even if he doesn't as yet know what's going on himself.

“He's sick. Kind of. I think? Sort of... curled into himself and mumbling. He's giving me a headache, actually.” And she sighs, sounding every shade of put out.

“Sick?” Dean's heart pumps faster. “Look. I don't know who you are, or what you've done to him, but I swear-”

“Oh you swear, do you, Dean? That's fantastic. You and I are going to get along just _swell_. And hey, I didn't do anything to your... what is he to you, anyway?” Curiosity seeps into her voice, and Dean can imagine a curved, quirked eyebrow of inquisitiveness on a face he doesn't even know.

“Look. Just tell me where you are, and let me speak to Cas.”

“Ha. You'll be lucky. I mean, I'll tell you where I am - I want rid of him, and _now_. But _speak_  Hold on...”

He hears her stand, and assumes she is walking. And then there is this faint, low, keening sound in the background before he hears her pacing away again.

“He's been doing that since he got here. Other than his name, the only words I got out of him were ' _Don't tell Dean_.'”

“He said not to tell me?” Dean tries not to feel offended by that.

“He did. So I found your number in his phone and called it anyway.” There's smugness in her voice that Dean doesn't know what to make of. “Yours is the most called number,” she adds, and Dean isn't sure what point she is trying to make.

“How come you didn't use his phone to call?”

“Well excuse _me_ for not wanting to use up a random's phone credit calling a random number on the most random-assed day of my year so far. I was _attempting_ being considerate. Not sure it's my thing,” she adds, genuinely sounding as though she is considering the point.

Dean's eyebrows raise, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it of disjointed thoughts. “Alright. Tell me where you are and I'll come get.”

He scribbles down the address she gives on the back of a receipt, mentally calculating how long it'll take to get there.

“I'll set off right now. Gonna be at least three hours though.”

“Three _hours_?!” The woman’s voice is pissed off and incredulous, and Dean feels the need to defend himself. ”That's just _perfect_ ,” she seethes. Dean's pretty sure he hears her kick something in frustration.

“Hey, I'll get there sooner than that if I can, okay? I'm literally setting off now.” and he starts the engine as if to back up his words.

“Fine. I'll watch over your... him,” She agrees grudgingly, “Guess I can work from home for a bit. Or join him on the floor and start rocking myself.” And then, “Reckon I should give him some painkillers?”

“I doubt that'll help,” Dean replies, fear gripping him when he realises that if Cas is injured, or in pain, there's very little he himself can actually do for him.

“You sure?”

“No. But you know. He might be-”

“Allergic?” She guesses. It's a good guess. Makes sense. Way off, Dean smirks, but a good guess nonetheless. He might even be beginning to tentatively like this random stranger, he thinks as he sets up the hands free on route.

“Nah. Constitution of an ox, Cas.”

“Huh. Must be pretty bad what's hitting him then, right?”

Dean does not appreciate the reminder and the feeling of helplessness it gives him.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” is the only reply he gives, like he alone is some magical cure.

“Right. I'm Sam, by the way.”

“ _Sam_?” Dean's voice is disbelieving, and he shakes his head.

“Yeah. _Sam_ ” She replies defensively. “Short for Samantha. God, my parents hate me. Got a problem with my name, _Dean_?”

“No, no. No problem at all. My brother's called Sam.”

“Oh.” And, “Older or younger?” She asks, as though calculating.

“Younger.”

“Good.” she decides, her voice relieved.

“...It is?”

“Sure it is. If you're the older brother you've likely got that.... _I'm-big-brother-let-me-take-care-of-you shit_ going on, you know? Sick is _way_ beyond my league to handle.”

Dean laughs. “No brothers yourself?”

“God no. I was enough trouble I reckon. Only me. More cousins than I can remember names for though,”

“Huh. Well, it's just me and Sam,” he offers, wondering again what he's going to tell Sam. _His_ Sam.

“Oh boy,” she says, and Dean can't make out her tone.

“What?”

“One of _them_ , huh?”

“One of them _what_?”

“Nothing, nothing, never mind. I get the feeling you're gonna be very useful to getting this,” and her voice fades away as though she's turning her head, “ _lump_ ,” she decides, “off my hands is all.”

Dean resents Cas being referred to as a lump and says as much.

“ _Awwwwww_ ,”

“ _What_?!” Dean's voice is exasperated, and his cheeks blush unconsciously at the mirth in her voice.

“Nothing, nothing. Just get your ass here, and soon, okay _Dean_?”

“I already told you. I'm on my way, _Sam_.”

Dean hears the phone click off, and tightens his fingers around the wheel.

***

Dean finds himself outside the door of a penthouse apartment.

He's been ushered in by a concierge that greeted him enthusiastically and pointed him towards the elevator. The man is jabbering away at him about, ' _exciting new guests_ ', and, ' _furniture moving_ ' and, ' _terrible noise,_ ' for the entire elevator ride, and Dean can't figure out why he's still with him. But then Dean can't really hear anything he's saying on account of his now near-panic level concern for Cas.

He knocks, once, the sound reverberating out into the hallway. He turns back to the elevator and raises his hand to wave half-heartedly at the disappearing concierge, and waits. After a moment, he hears muffled sounds behind the door, and watches as it swings open with a flourish.

“Took your time.”

Dean's eyes drop about a foot, confronted by a green-haired, elven-faced pixie of a woman who is crossing her arms with a scowl and impatiently tapping her foot. All he can think is that she's missing bells and pointy toes.

“Wanna know how many lights I ran?”

“Wanna know how many fucks I give?”

That pulls Dean up short, and he follows her mutely inside.

“Why's your hair the colour of pea soup?” he asks idly, his eyes sweeping over a huge apartment that seems far too sparse, and glassy.

“Why'd you walk like you just slid off a horse?” she retorts, not missing a beat.

Dean is not used to being rendered quite so speechless.

They round a corner into a cavernous living space, and Dean's heart stops.

Cas is on the floor. He's on his knees, with his palms flattened against the carpet, and his face is turned away from them. His cheek rests on a pillow that's clearly been wrangled with some difficulty under his head, and that soft, awful keening noise sounds even worse up close.

Dean drops down beside him with a gasp, hand clasping his shoulder.

Cas lets out an agonising whine at the touch, and Dean doesn't know whether to pull away or keep his hand right where it is.

“Cas...” Dean lets out brokenly.

“So can you move him?”

Dean glares back at Sam. “Does it _look_ like he's in any fit state to move?”

Sam sighs, every inch of her breathing long-sufferingly. “Guess not.”

Cas whines again.

“'S'okay, buddy, I got you. You're fine,” Dean says, squeezing his shoulder gently then wincing at Cas' answering whimper.

Sam makes vomiting noises behind him.

“Hey. Cut it out,” he barks, and Sam's hands fly up in mock defence.

Dean huffs in annoyance, but Cas still holds his full attention. “Cas,” he tries again. “Can you tell me what's wrong? You gotta help me out here,”

Cas just continues his keening, and it shoots through Dean, settling on him as though he is the one responsible for his pain.

“Cas,” he says again. “Cas, buddy. I'm gonna try and move you. I don't know if I should, but if you won't tell me-”

“Stand...” Cas mumbles brokenly.

“Cas?”

“Help... stand...”

Cas raises his head an inch and lets out the most painful of groans. Dean ducks down and they make eye contact for the first time. Dean's face contorts at Cas' eyes full of pain.

As slowly and gently as is possible, Dean tries to help lift Cas, but even the softest of touches seems to shoot lances of agony through him.

In the end, Dean acts as climbing frame, standing as straight and as supportive as he can whilst Cas uses him to haul himself to his feet. Cas can't even raise himself to full height and stands, slumping forward with Dean pressing just above his elbows to hold him upright.

“I thought he'd be taller.” Sam observes.

“Hey. You gonna help or just stand there shooting insults?”

“ _Insults_. You gotta problem with short?” She growls, arms folded tightly across her chest and her toe tapping once again.

“Look. It's been a long day-”

“Well excuse _me_. Pardon my interruption at my own inconvenience here. Anyone would think your friend here hadn't appeared out of nowhere and landed on _my_ living room floor.”

Dean groans internally when he hears the word _landed_ , dreading having to come up with an explanation. “Maybe we can take off his jacket.”

“Don't look at me,” she shakes her head once, arms remaining folded.

“Come on. Just help me get this off him.”

Sam groans, stamping forward, and stands directly behind Cas.

“If I hold him up, reckon you can shrug this off?” Dean gestures at Cas' trenchcoat.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Dean points a finger accusingly over Cas' shoulder at her. “Be gentle.”

Sam rolls her eyes, hands reaching up slowly to rest under the edges of the trenchcoat on Cas' shoulders. She pulls, making gagging noises, until it edges slowly down his arms.

“What's your problem?” Dean demands.

Sam peers around Cas at Dean with an incredulous scowl. “You're kidding me. This...” and she flaps a hand at Cas dismissively, “... _dude_... appears out of thin air and flumps to my floor, right when I'm trying to have my breakfast. He lays there, making these godawful noises, and I can't shift him. And then I have to deal with _you_ ”

Sam's voice remains laced with disdain, and Dean has the distinct impression that he's wronged her in a previous life.

“And then. _You_ show up, and ask me to help you _strip_ him. I mean _seriously_. I mean... I've stripped a fair few men in my time, but that's when I'm planning on _sex_. I absolutely do _not_ want to have sex with this _mess_ ,” and the turn up of her nose makes Dean want to defend Cas' honour. Or his attractiveness. Or... just _or_.

But Sam cuts him off, raising her arms again and beginning the awful process of starting to peel down Cas' jacket.

“Do I _look_ like some kinda caregiver to you, Dean? Do I? Do you see any potted plants around this place? Can you hear the cute little paws of a kitty cat roaming around the halls? Urgh,” she finishes with a loathsome shake of her head.

“I guess not,” Dean says, wincing at the sheen of sweat on Cas' face as he raises his gaze to him, silently pleading.

“I am a biologist,” she continues. “Lab coats. Sterile environments. No germs,” she adds, tersely, as though Dean and Cas may be germs themselves.

Sam's hands are tugging down the jacket, and as she gets to Cas' shoulders she jumps back, exclaiming, “Jesus _Christ_ you're hot!”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh. Sam?”

“He's hot,” she repeats again, pulling her hands away and peering round at Dean when he doesn’t respond. “Not _that_ kind of hot. He's all yours, sweetheart.”

Dean's jaw drops, and he moves to deny her insinuations, but Sam cuts him off.

“He's _hot_ , as in the fever kind of hot. Like he needs an ice bath or something. Feel.” She demands, and before Dean can object Sam has grabbed him round the wrist and is pulling his hand closer to Cas' shoulder blades.

Dean's eyes widen at the heat there, and when his palm accidentally bumps against Cas’ skin his head falls forward with a hiss.

“We need to get him sat down,” Dean manages, and between them they wrestle Cas from his suit jacket.

In a very lopsided manner, Sam and Dean manage to manoeuvre Cas over to the couch, where he sits but falls forward to rest his arms on his knees. His back is curved as though it is painful, and his whole body moves with every breath as though it is resonating agony throughout.

“Think we can have some water, Sam?” Dean asks, knowing Cas doesn't normally need it, but thinking it can't do him any harm.

“Sure. I'll even ice it up for you, real nice,” Sam says, waltzing away from them.

When she comes back, she has a tray of three tall glasses of water with ice cubes bobbing in them, and a towel twisted into a fist-sized bun shape.

She holds it up, looking down calculatingly at Cas, and before Dean can even begin to object she is holding her makeshift icepack against Cas' back.

The effect is instantaneous.

Cas moans, and it's the kind of moan that has the unfortunate effect of going straight to Dean's groin. Dean drops a hand across his lap in embarrassment, watching as Cas leans in the direction of the ice as though it is the most blissful of reliefs.

The ice melts almost instantly. Sam hitches up an eyebrow and stomps off again, only to return with another towel and a jug of ice.

In utter fascination, she repeatedly fills and twists the towel, presses it along Cas' shoulder blades, and watches as the ice melts almost on touch, until the jug is completely empty.

Dean looks up at her shrewdly as he coaxes the glass of water to Cas' lips. “Not a caregiver, huh?” he fires out, pretending not to notice how Cas' wet white shirt clings to his skin.

“Bite me,”

Cas whimpers pitifully, and Dean aches for him.

“You're taking over babysitting duties. I'm off for a shower.” And Sam is off again, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

“What's going on, Cas?” Dean asks again quietly, leaning as close to Cas as he dares.

“Molt.” Cas groans, and slumps against Dean's shoulder, passing out.

Dean closes his eyes and groans himself.

***

Dean chooses to forget the intricate details of how the next few hours pass. Sam refused to have them there any longer because she had a 'dirty weekend planned with a _real_ man.' So between her, Dean, and the ever-enthusiastic concierge, and soundtracked by a litany of cajoling, swearing and grunts of brute force, Cas was walked/half-carried to Dean's car.

Cas remained passed out for the entire journey back to the bunker.

He's now tucked up in a bed, pale in a pair of pajamas and eyes drooped, fighting to stay awake.

Dean is sat on a chair beside the bed as close as he can get it, and he watches so intently that he can identify every breath from every wince of pain.

Sam, as in Winchester, not scary-stranger-pixie-lady, had brewed up some kind of cocktail of dangerous amounts of pain relief, with herbs, and whiskey, which Cas had resolutely refused to drink with all the insistence of a sick child fighting against medicine, until Dean laced it with honey.

He sips at it now steadily with a glazed look on his face that Dean hopes means he's doped up enough to be out of pain, but not about to keel over.

At least the keening has stopped.

Dean fights against the memory of getting Cas under an ice cold shower, angling the showerhead directly on to Cas' shoulders, and those moans that drove Dean a little insane.

That particular memory is going to feed his nightly fantasies for months to come.

“So Cas,” Dean begins, forcing his thoughts to more immediate ones, “what did you mean earlier by 'molt'?”

Cas sighs, taking another sip of his drink.

“' _Molt_?'” Sam repeats across the bed, looking to Dean for confirmation.

“Yeah. He said, ' _molt_ ', and was like, gone. That's the last word he said and that was... hours ago.”

“Angels have one molting season per human year.”

Dean and Sam's eyes meet, startled, and the only other sound in the room is Cas slurping at his drink.

“Um. Cas?” Sam asks uncertainly, shrugging his shoulders when Dean looks to him for answers.

“Once every human year, from the beginning of our existence, angels have a molting period.” Cas speaks matter of factly as though this is information they should already know. His voice is a little far off, and Dean hopes it's the effect of the drink.

Cas slurps again, and continues.

“The molting period is only short, perhaps a period of four days in total, and during this time we lose and replenish all of our feathers. It is a time of great danger for an angel because we are at our most vulnerable. We often seek shelter with trusted companions,” he adds, and doesn't notice how Dean flinches at his words.

“So. The last few years...” Dean starts uncertainly, and Cas looks up at him with bleary eyes.

“I have hidden it from you both. It is of no concern.”

“Uh, yeah it is, Cas. I mean look at you,”

Cas closes his eyes, then takes another sip of his drink. His face drops when he realises he's reached the end of it, and Sam reaches over with a half bottle of whiskey, topping it up. Cas takes another sip, and sighs.

“It is unusually painful this year,” he observes, as though he is talking about an event experienced by someone else.

“How come?” Dean's still smarting at the fact Cas hadn't contacted them, and had resolutely been against contacting them - him, he thinks, but his questions keep coming.

“I assume it is because I failed to notice the symptoms.”

“There's symptoms, Cas?”

“Itching. A tightening pain across the shoulders if you are in a vessel. Something of a similar nature if you are not.”

“And if you catch the symptoms in time,” Dean presses, eyes fixed on Cas.

“Then an angel is best to leave his vessel for the length of the molting period and return to his true form so that he can shed his feathers freely.”

“So you shed. Actual feathers. And new ones grow in. Like a bird?” Sam asks, and Dean shoots a look at him in annoyance at the fascination on his face.

“Yes.”

“And because you haven't left your vessel,” Dean starts, already knowing the answer.

Cas sighs, tired and deep. “I will continue to experience excruciating pain for a little time.”

Dean and Sam groan a little in sympathy.

“I believe this is providing a pleasant numbing sensation,” Cas says, absently looking at his drink.

“So how long?”

Cas looks up at Dean, uncomprehending.

“How long are you gonna be in pain?”

Cas screws up his face. “Today was the first. I assume tomorrow will be the worst as that is when the last of the old feathers fall out, and the new ones begin to push through.” Cas looks a little sick at the prospect, and swallows down a mouthful of whiskey hastily.

“There will be one, perhaps two days following that, which should be marginally less painful.” he adds, forlornly.

“Whatever we can do to help,” Sam says in solidarity, and Cas shoots him a grateful, tired smile.

***

The next day is absolutely more painful, and it is one of the most challenging of Dean's life. He doesn't know how he would get through it were it not for Sam by his side as Cas thrashes, and moans, and begs for it to stop. They press cold packs against his bare skin; and even though the feathers aren't physically shedding here, but on another plane, Cas' shoulders blister red, and painfully swollen.

At one point, he is in such pain that Dean ends up hauling him off for another shower, shivering, and desperately stripping the engine of every car that he knows in his head to take his focus away from the way a very naked, wet Cas clings against him under the steady, ice cold stream.

Day three brings a little more relief, with less groans, and less agony, and more the need to sleep as much as possible.

When Cas wakes on the fourth day, and Dean stirs in the chair next to him, they both sit perfectly still, waiting to see if the pain starts up again. When it does, it is dull, manageable, and by the end of the day, Cas slumps on to his back for the first time, arching his back like a cat.

Dean's eyes take in him writhing, and he swallows repeatedly in discomfort.

***

Though recovered, Cas remains at the bunker with Dean and Sam for the next few days.

Dean corners Cas one of those days on his own.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, Dean.”

“Why didn't you want me to know you were sick?” Dean's voice is quiet, and he hopes that Cas won't notice the way he still hasn't let go of that.

“I wasn't sick,” Cas responds, and of course he knows Dean is offended.

“Whatever.”

“I wasn't sick, Dean. And I chose not to tell you because I did not wish for you to see me weak.”

“Why?” Dean's face is genuinely baffled. “You've seen me beyond my worst often enough.”

Cas avoids his eyes. “I am...embarrassed. To require such... intimate help. I did not know how to ask,”

***

_One Year Later_

Cas appears at the foot of Dean's bed, sitting with his back to him.

Dean wakes at the feel of the bed dipping, rolling over to squint up at Cas.

“Cas?” he asks blearily, though there is no one else who would appear to him the way that Cas does.

“It's starting.” Cas' tone is full of dread, and loathing, yet it takes Dean a few seconds to realise what Cas is referring to.

“The molting?” he asks, watching as Cas nods uncomfortably, already twitching a little.

After the last molt, Dean had made a note of the date, wanting to make sure he kept an eye out in case Cas did a disappearing act again.

With a stretch, Dean pulls back the duvet and crawls across the bed, wrapping his arms around Cas from behind and pressing a series of kisses into his neck.

Cas hums softly under his touch, exhaling a gentle sigh.

“I've got you, Cas.” he whispers into his hair, as reassuring as he can make it. “I've got you,”

Cas' hands raise to clasp over Dean's, and he leans his head back against Dean's shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Where do you want to do this?” Dean asks, bending his head to kiss Cas' neck.

“I think it is too late for me to leave,” Cas sighs again, and he feels a heavier weight in Dean's arms, as though he's already imagining the pain.

“Yeah, I got that.” Dean sighed, nudging him. “I guess I'm surprised you missed the symptoms again after... you know...” Dean presses a kiss to Cas' temple.

“I think I have become too human,” Cas mumbles, half-complaining. “I seem unable to recognise the familiar pain until it is too late.”

Dean groans a little and squeezes him gentle. “What you're telling me is that you're becoming a Winchester. We do stupid stuff like work through pain or ignore it's happening.”

Cas smiles, leaning his head against Dean's. “Perhaps.”

Dean gets off the bed, slowly pulling Cas to his feet. He can see by the angle Cas holds himself that he's about to be in dreadful pain, and soon. “'S'ok, Cas. I'm a bit more prepared this time. I kind of kept a note of the date so I could maybe help...”

Dean swallows thickly at the look of surprise and gratitude, and awe, that crosses Cas' face in that moment.

He's got in supplies, the same things they had that used to ease Cas' pain a little last time, plus a few extras he's thought about since then. He's not really sure of the mechanics or biology behind this molting, but cold things seem to bring relief, so Dean's prepared to try all that he can. There's this ice crackle stuff that he's found, which is supposed to be used for walkers when their feet get tired, but he wants to give a it try. Amongst other things.

At least this year he'll be able to touch Cas freely.

***

When the keening first starts, Dean kisses him gently, sitting him down at the table under Sam's watchful gaze.

They've pre-prepared some of the drink they'd made, adding a few other things they've researched trying, and the freezer is full of bags and bags of ice cubes, ready to melt on Cas' back.

Cas sips slowly at the drink before him, looking maudlin. Sam raises a comforting hand to rest on his arm, which Cas turns into with a grateful smile.

Sam helps Dean walk Cas back to their room, and returns moments later with flasks full of Cas' 'medicine' as well as a stack of towels.

“Call me if you need anything, both of you,” he says, and leaves once Dean nods in confirmation.

“Alright, then. Let's get this started.” Dean sucks in a breath, desperately wishing Cas didn't have to go through this. He's determined to do all that he can though, and steps forward, pulling Cas into his arms.

He slowly unbuttons Cas' shirt, pressing kisses into all of his skin as he goes. Unzips and pulls off his jeans and underwear, and gently guides him towards the bed.

Cas lays on his front, arms out at either side, head resting on a pillow. He lifts his head again to watch Dean, who has removed his own clothes, as he walks across the room to the small freezer he's had installed, and removes a bag of ice cubes.

Dean knows distraction won't help Cas for all of the molting period, but he doesn't see why it can't start out that way.

He pops an ice cube in his mouth, leans down over Cas, and begins lathing an icy trail across his shoulders. Cas groans, deep and guttural, and stirs his hips in a way that makes Dean's eyes flutter closed.

Dean runs his finger tips down Cas' hips and the curve of his ass, and Cas shivers in response. Dean alternates between this and his tongue-driven ice cube trail across his back, until the tone of Cas' groans change altogether.

Dean raises Cas' hips, and licks and strokes and thrusts his way to distracting Cas for as long as he possibly can.

When Cas wakes later, his first thought is idle wondering at how Dean had managed to clean him up without even moving him. His second is to register the pain shooting jagged bolts into him, and his third is guilt at waking Dean, who is sprawled out by his side.

Dean stirs, uncomplaining, immediately beginning to press more icy kisses into Cas' skin as long as the ice lasts.

He's more than happy to hold Cas up in as many showers as he can handle. And even more willing to wrap a reassuring arm around Cas as he sleeps.

***

When this molt is over, Cas is relieved, but also grateful, and humble, and so full of affection for the way Dean has helped him through it that he feels as though his chest might actually explode with happiness. It's a silly, human feeling, he thinks, but he's happy to be silly, and as human as he can be, so long as he has Dean by his side.

When Dean is sure that Cas is better, he disappears for a moment, then comes back to their room to lead him out by the hand.

Cas follows him willingly through the bunker to the library table, finding Sam wearing a party hat and popping party poppers in his direction. There is silly string, and streamers everywhere, and on the table is a ridiculously large birthday cake and a stack of presents.

Cas turns his gaze on Dean, eyes wide and full of wonder.

“You said. The molt happens every year after the year of your creation,” Dean shrugs, leaning over to light the candles on the cake. “So technically, this is your birthday. Happy birthday, Cas,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss him. “I didn't know how many candles, so I just put ten,” he adds, grinning at the look on Cas' face.

 


End file.
